


Not An Advantage

by julieta



Series: Legwork [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mind Games, incest as a competition, john is long-suffering and frisky, mycroft is losing his damn mind, sherlock just likes attention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julieta/pseuds/julieta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been two weeks since the incident John privately referred to as What Happened, and all three of them were apparently committed to never mentioning it again.</p><p>or, the sequel to Legwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not An Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> SIX MONTHS LATER, a sequel appears! You guys have been so patient while I tried to write this, and I don't want to keep you waiting any longer, so I'm posting the first short chapter while this is still a work in progress. Thank you for your feedback on Legwork, and I promise chapter 2 won't take another 6 months to finish.

It was hard to pretend he didn’t notice that Mycroft was spending a lot of time at 221B, especially since Mycroft seemed hell-bent on throwing his presence in John’s face as much as possible.

Most evenings, John returned from work to find the two camped out in the sitting room, Sherlock draped melodramatically across the sofa, or pacing about the rug muttering to himself, or playing the violin in his armchair, Mycroft usually seated primly in John’s own chair.

Several times he’s walked in on Mycroft reading with Sherlock’s head in his lap, fingers working through Sherlock’s curls, and had been obliged to hurry up the stairs into his bedroom while Mycroft glared at him. He was spending a lot of time in his bedroom lately, shut up with his laptop to avoid any awkward confrontations.

It had been two weeks since the incident John privately referred to as What Happened, and all three of them were apparently committed to never mentioning it again. Mycroft practically growled whenever John was within ten metres of Sherlock, and for the moment John let himself be bullied around his own flat while he waited to see what would happen next.

If Sherlock remembered what he’d said, he didn’t let on. They’d barely been alone together since What Happened, but when they were, Sherlock regarded John with the same affectionate condescension he always did.

John harbored some private suspicions. It seemed entirely possible that Sherlock’s unfortunate climactic outburst had been a calculated gambit to make Mycroft jealous. John knew better than to put anything past Sherlock; he saw nothing wrong with using others for his own benefit, and John knew that included him.

If Sherlock had intended to turn his brother into a possessive wreck, he’d done very well, John thinks, watching them from the kitchen. Sherlock was stretched out across the couch, his head cushioned on Mycroft’s lap, the very picture of lazy contentment as Mycroft repeatedly smoothed his hair back.

Of course, it was possible that John was being paranoid, and that Sherlock had truly called out his name unintentionally, without any ulterior motive.

For some reason, that seemed much more unsettling.

\----------------------------

The uneasy balance of Mycroft’s jealousy, Sherlock’s apparent happiness, and John’s desperate attempts to avoid confrontation lasts two weeks before the first fractures appear.

John stumbles downstairs one weekend morning to find the two brothers mid-argument in the kitchen. At his appearance, they both press their lips together and start fiddling with whatever’s at hand.

“Morning,” John offers, and puts two slices of bread in the toaster. Mycroft and Sherlock both ignore him and pretend to be fully distracted by their own cuticles and a microscope with no slide on it, respectively.

John fills the kettle and wishes he were dead.

“I just think it’s very disingenuous of you,” Sherlock blurts out.

_No, no, no, please, God. Don’t do this to me._

“Let’s not in front of John, Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“Oh, _now_ you don’t want to include John?”

John makes an involuntary squawking noise in protest and careens off into the safety of the shower.

He makes a valiant effort not to, but he can hear them shouting even over the water, and a few minutes later he hears the flat door slam.

While he towels off, there is a loud thud from the kitchen wall, and when he emerges from the bathroom, Sherlock is at the sink, rinsing blood off his knuckles.

“Stupid thing to do,” Sherlock says, without looking up. John picks his cold toast out of the toaster and doesn’t say anything.

The next week, Sherlock goes to bed early one night and wakes up the next with a vicious case of the flu, which suits his endless desire to monopolize John’s attention but is otherwise “completely unacceptable,” as he groans to John.

“Quiet, let me take your temperature,” John scolds.

“Molly was going to give me a bag of toes today!” Sherlock wails.

John offers up a silent prayer of gratitude that he and his refrigerator have been spared a “bag of toes” for at least one more day.

“There will be other toes, Sherlock. Now keep this under your tongue,” John says, and sticks the thermometer in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock clamps his lips together and glares up at John, his face sweaty and utterly furious.

“Don’t blame me. I told you to let me give you a flu jab.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“And you told me I was being pedestrian, and then you told me to go away, and then you shot the microwave, which you still haven’t fixed, by the way.”

“I - !” Sherlock starts, but John cups a hand under his jaw and forces it shut again.

“Hush. Don’t be difficult.”

John can’t help but smile. They’ve momentarily slipped back into their normal roles – John the long-suffering, Sherlock the petulant – and it feels comfortable. Nice.

The thermometer beeps. “Thirty-eight point five. You definitely have a fever.”

Mouth free of any obstruction, Sherlock begins an indulgent litany of complaints.

“Everything _huuurts_ ,” he whines, flopping back into his pillows and rolling his head around.

“I’m going to get you some ibuprofen and some water.”

“Get me my phone.”

“You don’t need your phone, you need to drink some water and go back to sleep.”

“Lestrade might text!”

“It wouldn’t matter even if he did, because you’ll be asleep.”

“Sleep is boring. Everything is boring. I’m _hot_ ,” Sherlock whimpered, fussing beneath his duvet for a moment before going limp again.

“I’ll turn on your fan.”

“That woman you met on Friday is married, you know.”

“Don’t be a brat,” John shushes him, and he goes to fetch the ibuprofen.

John spends the next ten hours pretending he’s not happy to be taking care of Sherlock, that feeding him crackers and soup and laughing at his pouty tantrums and peeking in at him while he naps and reading him interesting comments from the blog doesn’t make John guiltily but thrillingly content.

At one point, Sherlock weakly flops his hand in the direction of his water glass and groans “ _I can’t reach_ ,” and though he obviously CAN reach, John still gets a warm pressure in his chest when he hands Sherlock the glass. “My hero,” Sherlock sniffs, and John chuckles.

Soon after the sun sets, though, John feels a whoosh of air as the apartment door swings open and looks up from his laptop to see Mycroft swooping in.

_Well, the Holmes brothers certainly know how to swoop,_ John thinks.

“And I suppose you had a good reason for not telling me Sherlock was ill,” Mycroft spits, barely slowing down as he stomps toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Possibly because there’s nothing you can do,” John shouts, standing to rush after Mycroft. “Or _maybe_ because he never asked for you.” The venom in his voice surprises even John. Mycroft whips around to glare at him, one hand wrapped around Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“What an excellent use of your medical degree, Dr. Watson, playing bedside nursemaid. How _ever_ did Sherlock and I get along without your assistance?”

“Well, evidently you two can’t do _anything_ without my assist-” John’s comeback gets cut off when Sherlock, wrapped in his duvet and looking sleepy and annoyed, yanks the door open to glower at them.

“You’re both idiots and someone needs to get me more wine gums,” he snuffles, and turns to hobble back into bed. Mycroft murmurs, “Step lively, doctor,” and follows Sherlock into his room.

John hesitates in the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, only for a moment before stomping into the living room, snatching up his keys, and making a dramatic, wall-shaking exit from the flat. He shoves his fists in his pockets and heads toward the pub.

He gets home late, drunk, and looking for a row, but neither brother emerges to welcome or confront him, so he stumbles up to his room and collapses fully clothed on his unmade bed.

He  squirms out of his coat, lets it fall to the floor, and tries to do the same with his trousers before giving up halfway and just shoving one hand down his pants to palm at his cock.

He strokes himself lazily for a few minutes, gets himself hard, and then, as he has many times over the last few weeks, summons a memory of Sherlock – naked, blindfolded, legs bent back. And always, always, his own name spilling out Sherlock’s panting mouth.

_John._

“Sherlock,” John whispers. The incantation sends a surge of muscle-deep pleasure through his pelvis, makes him roll his hips up against his hand. He says it again. “ _Sherlock.”_

_Yes, John, yes, yes._

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock,” John gasps, and he fists his free hand in the sheets, imagines he’s clutching Sherlock’s hand. “Jesus, Sherlock, I…”

_John!_

John bites down on his lip as he comes, keeps himself from shouting while his hips twitch and his toes curl. When it’s over, when his muscles relax and he can breathe normally again, John sinks heavily into the mattress and sighs. Normally he’d feel guilty at this point, perverted and filthy, but the alcohol has dulled his sense of shame and he only feels tired, his exhaustion tinged with dissatisfaction.

For a moment, John resigns himself to falling asleep in his jeans and waking up a crusty mess, but then he hauls himself out of bed and strips down to his pants. He scrounges around his dresser for his ibuprofen before remembering that he left it with Sherlock, remembering that Sherlock is ill and downstairs and not alone.

He falls asleep frowning.


End file.
